“This is the sunroom,” Camilla replied. “At least, it used to be. Now, it’s your studio.”
Lindsey had visited this room while exploring the day she’d arrived at the manor. Back then, it had been furnished with a lounge and a couple of armchairs. “Where did all this come from?”
“Most of the furniture was in storage in the east wing. The easels, the drawing table—they belonged to my grandmother.” Camilla strolled up to the table by the window and ran her hand over the smooth, dark wood. “As for the art supplies, I had them delivered yesterday. I wasn’t sure what you’d need, so I asked a friend of mine who’s an artist to recommend some basics.”
Basics didn’t even begin to describe everything in the room. It held everything an artist could ever need. Canvases of all shapes and sizes. Pencils, sketch pads, different types of paints. And all of it was of the finest quality, from all the best brands. Camilla’s friend had advised her well.
“I hope this is adequate,” Camilla said.
“This is more than adequate. I would have killed for this stuff in art school.” Lindsey peered into a box filled with very expensive oil paints. She felt a twinge of guilt.
“What’s wrong?”
Lindsey hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m going to use it, that’s all.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Camilla said. “I’ve decided you have it too easy doing nothing all day when I’m working. So you’re going to do some work of your own.”
“What do you mean?”
“From now on, you’re going to spend an hour in here after breakfast every day working on your art.”
Lindsey opened her mouth, then shut it again. Was Camilla seriously going to force her to do this? “But-”
Camilla folded her arms across her chest. “This isn’t a request.”
Heat bubbled up insid
e Lindsey’s stomach. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt angry.
“You can’t just tell me what to do!” Lindsey said.
“The last time I checked, I’ve been telling you what to do for weeks now,” Camilla replied.
“This is different. This isn’t like everything else!”
“Why not?”
Hot tears gathered at the corners of Lindsey’s eyes. Why was she suddenly finding it so hard to express herself?
“Apple,” she said.
At once, Camilla took Lindsey’s hand and drew her to a window seat beside them. “I’m sorry, darling. Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Lindsey grumbled.
“I was trying to help. I thought you needed a little push. But I pushed you too hard, didn’t I?”
Lindsey nodded. Her frustration had reduced to a simmer.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Camilla asked. “When we spoke the other night in my room, it was obvious that you didn’t really want to give up on your art. I could hear it in your voice. Is something holding you back?”
“It’s just that, it used to be so easy,” Lindsey said. “I used to have this constant desire to create. I used to find inspiration everywhere I looked. But now, every time I even think about trying to draw, or paint, or anything else, it’s like I’m paralyzed. I just… can’t.”
“Well, my grandmother used to say that creating art is work like anything else. Sure, you need talent and inspiration. But sometimes, you just need to sit down and do it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Camilla said.